The Maia
by SnowStormInSummer
Summary: Set eleven years after the downfall of Sauron. On a scouting mission, the youngest member of Faramir's men discovers something among the wreckage of Mordor. ON HIATUS UNTIL THE CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS
1. Chapter 1 Into Mordor

**A/N: Yes, I know what you're thinking: Pax, why are you uploading a new fanfic instead of working on Save Them? Because I felt like it, and I have no clue how to carry on with Save Them anyway. So, sorry. Also I don't own Lord Of The Rings, annoyingly.**

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He had been born in Gondor, the Realm of Kings. He came into the world eight years before the fall of Sauron, and did not understand the threat of that great dark power until much later, when it no longer existed. His name was Aníron, and he had earned it. He had always been the first child to grab the toys, or the food. He wanted, he desired, with intensity.

His name meant "I desire" in Sindarin. His mother had been an elf-friend before she died. He had lost his father too, in the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. So Aníron had been taken in by Faramir son of Denethor, the Prince of Ithilien, and raised to be part of his band of patrollers. They scouted the edges of Gondor's territory and kept the peace.

Just because Sauron was vanquished it did not mean that all evil in the world was gone.

On Aníron's nineteenth birthday, he left with Faramir and the rest of the group for a mission that would change his life. They were heading into the remains of Mordor to see if there was any way to reclaim the land and make it part of Gondor again. They would also explore Minas Morgul and see if it was possible to convert it back into Minas Ithil once again. Faramir himself would investigate the ruins of the city with half of the company, and he had chosen Aníron to lead the other half through the plains. It would be unpleasant work, but it had to be done. Gondor needed more land, more cities. Its population was growing.

Aníron watched as Faramir said goodbye to his wife, Éowyn, and their two sons, Fæovir and Éodred. Fæovir was twelve, and Éodred was ten. One name was of Gondor, the other of Rohan. It symbolised their mixed heritage. Éowyn had been known to accompany Faramir on his journeys through Gondor and Ithilien, but she did not wish to enter the land of shadow. The memories of her pain after killing the Witch-King of Angmar were still too fresh, too vivid. She would stay in Minas Tirith.

After the last goodbyes had been said, the company rode off towards Mordor. It was a road seldom used, save by the company. It led from the gates of Minas Tirith to the Black Gate of Mordor, and crossed right through Ithilien. It was that last reason that made it the company's usual route. But Aníron had never followed it to its end before. None of them had.

When they arrived at the broken gates, Aníron heard discontented mutters from behind him. He knew the men did not want to enter that accursed place. But duty was duty, and there was no evil left to be feared in Mordor, unless it was some residual malevolence in the stones and the soil.

After the horses were hobbled and tied firmly to a spike of the gate, the men armed themselves and stood waiting for their orders.

"You," Faramir said, gesturing to half of the men. "with me. We seek Minas Morgul. The rest of you, follow Aníron and make a judgement on whether this place could feasibly become hospitable at any point in the near future. We meet by the remains of Barad-dûr an hour before sunset."

The discontented muttering grew louder. Aníron's half of the men were not happy with their lot. They wanted their captain to lead them, or if that was not possible, at least one of the men, not the youngest member of the company! But Aníron was determined to live up to the great trust placed in him. Ever since he was young he had been kindly treated by Faramir, even though he had often been slow to learn, and even though he had feared battle for a long time.

"Why should that youngster lead us?" complained one of the men, "he's untested as a Captain." Many other men chimed in at that, agreeing with the heckler. Faramir glared at them all severely.

"_I_ am your Captain," he said, "and you will obey my commands. My command at this moment is to follow Aníron."

Faramir was kind-hearted, but he was not lacking in the ability to lead and to command with authority. The men apologised and Faramir's company departed. Aníron's men watched him expectantly, so he squared his shoulders, took a deep breath and led them into Mordor.

The plains of Mordor were dusty and though nothing shrouded the land in darkness anymore, it was a pale and weak daylight that pierced the clouds high above. Silent as the wind, the men moved through the difficult and mismatched terrain of hot dusty soil, large boulders, patches of mud and piles of rubble. In the strange light, the desolate, barren landscape looked particularly unwelcoming.

"To think the King wants people to live here!" exclaimed one of the men, "they will never agree to it. This land has seen too much darkness for that."

Aníron said nothing. He was thinking similar thoughts. But, he supposed, if the plan to colonise Mordor was followed through with, the rubble would be cleared away, and the land would be irrigated for farming, and houses would be built. The ruins of the old fortresses of evil would be removed, and the laughter of children would fill the air. With all of those things in place, perhaps the dread of Mordor would fade away.

However, Aníron did not think _he _would be one of the people who made their homes there. The place sent shivers down his spine. He looked down at the white tree on the front of his tunic, and wondered if he really deserved to be leading these men. How could he, when he was afraid, and longed only for his warm bed in Minas Tirith, or his cot in the barracks of Ithilien?

Shaking off these depressing thoughts, he walked on purposefully, looking around him to scout for good areas in which to build, or to farm. He found a few promising places, and noted their location in relation to the destroyed gate. However, Aníron was gradually becoming aware of something. It was a sound, and its implications were disturbing.

It was the sound of heavy, armoured footfalls. All of his company wore soft cloth shoes, ideal for walking with the light, almost imperceptible tread of experienced rangers. These feet were shod in iron. The noise of the steps was coming from the other side of a large pile of rubble. Aníron could sense the men's unease, and knew they could hear the unknown person walking nearby.

He turned, and gave the signal for them to ready their weapons. Silently, as one, they pulled bows from their backs and notched arrows to them. Aníron did the same, and slowly they crept towards the pile.

Aníron's heart was in his mouth as he rounded the pile and observed the stranger. They were clothed in dark armour, with spikes along the shoulders. However, they wore no helmet and carried no weapon, and Aníron saw that _they _were in fact a _she. _She had long dark hair, and as she stepped towards them, he saw that she had steel-grey eyes and a determined expression. She seemed to be around his age. Aníron was just beginning to relax a little when one of the older men whispered hoarsely in his ear:

"Aníron! The armour she wears, I recognise it from the tapestries, and from the descriptions of the storytellers. It is that of the dark lord, Sauron."

Aníron looked towards the girl, afraid and perplexed, and she took a step towards him.

"You are men of Gondor, I see it by your uniform," she said, in a lilting, musical voice that felt incongruous with her armour, and her surroundings.

"So we are, and we ask your business in these lands," Aníron answered.

"May I not wander freely in the land of my birth?" she asked, looking amused and slightly vexed.

"What ought we do to, Aníron?" another of the company inquired. Aníron thought for a moment.

"We ask you to come with us," he said to the stranger, and then to the company: "this is for Faramir to decide."


	2. Chapter 2 The Confessions of An Ainu

**A/N: Hello there! Sorry that I have kept you waiting for this for so long. I don't own LOTR and all characters belong to Tolkien except my OCs. Many thanks to Snowfox98 and EverleighBain for giving me useful tips for improving my story. Enjoy!**

At the end of the day, when the sun was creeping towards the horizon, Aníron stood waiting with his company of men for Faramir's group to arrive. The strange girl stood leaning against the crumbled walls of Barad-dûr, looking bored. She appeared confident, but Aníron's honed instincts told him that she was not threatening. They had never failed him before, but all the other men seemed deeply unsettled at her presence. Unsure what to do, he set up camp in the shelter of the gate's fallen pinnacle, fed the horses, and waited for his Captain.

Faramir arrived as dusk was fading to night. He was late, he said, because one of the men had been injured and they had been forced to wait while he was tended. But when he saw the girl he fell silent. There was no question that he recognised her armour.

"Aníron," he said hoarsely, "what is the meaning of this?"

"I don't rightly know, Sir," answered the boy, "we found her wandering through the plains. She says this is the land of her birth."

Faramir paled visibly. Aníron felt a strange clench in his gut. Everyone seemed to fear her, but she did not seem dangerous. There was an amused, slightly sheepish smile on her face, and her eyes twinkled with mirth. She stepped forward, and Faramir surprised the men by drawing his sword and placing the tip against her neck. Aníron was shocked at such rash and violent behaviour. He had seen Faramir angry, joyful, melancholy and passionate, but he had never before seen the look that now showed in his eyes. It was terror, pure terror. And it made Aníron feel unhappy to see it.

"Tell me who you are or I will kill you!" the Prince of Ithilien exclaimed. The girl laughed.

"Do not think that steel can hurt me," she answered, sounding surprisingly menacing, "but I do not begrudge you the knowledge. Remove your blade from my throat and I will be able to tell my story more easily."

Faramir hesitated for a moment, and Aníron held his breath. What would his Captain decide? Faramir's face showed an inner struggle, the outcome of which Aníron could only guess at. Then he shakily lowered his sword and leaned upon it like a man utterly spent, and nodded for the girl to continue.

"First of all I must own up to a lie. This is not where I was born. But it is my land as surely as if I had been born here, for my father once held sway over all that you now see. In the beginning our names were different. His was Mairon, and I was Peraveta. But then darkness took him and he fell under the spell of Melkor, the enemy of all who seek peace or safety. He was named Sauron then, in bitter mockery of who he once had been. I took the name of Morveta, though I regret it now. A veil was over my sight, and in my devotion to him I forgot all that was fair and good and worth fighting for. But I was not wholly evil, it seems, for in the perishing of the one ring and of my father and all who served him, I was spared, and my clouded vision cleared to all the evil we had done. I wish now we had never descended from the halls of Ilúvatar and forsaken the Ainur. For they were pure and kind and bore no ill will to any. I am in your hands now, men of Gondor, and trust you will treat me well. If you do not I will leave and none of you will be able to stop me."

The speech left Aníron feeling chilled to the bone. But still, he did not fear her. She looked so harmless, and so sad. Surely she could not truly be dangerous? And yet her threats had not seemed like empty words.

Aníron and the three men he shared with were forced to move their bedrolls into other tents that night, so that Sauron's daughter might sleep in theirs. as the men sat around campfires, sharing out food and talking in low whispers, and Morveta sat silent in "her" tent, Aníron took a bowl of stew over to where Faramir watched the horizon. He took the bowl wordlessly, and nodded his thanks. There was silence between them for a few moments, and then Aníron said quietly,

"What will we do with the girl, Captain?"

Faramir exhaled noisily and shrugged.

"We will take her back to Gondor to be brought before the King and Queen. They will decide her fate."

"And if she resists? You know as well as I, Faramir, that she is one of the Maiar. We have no power to compare to hers."

Faramir pursed his lips.

"If she _re_sists, then we will _in_sist, and that will make her very angry."

"What does that mean Sir?"

"It means, Aníron, that we must hope she does not resist."


	3. Chapter 3 The Journey Home

**A/N: Hey guys! So, I am going to try to make this chapter über-descriptive, as a nod to SnowFox98, once again thank you very much for your constructive criticism. However, don't worry, there will be plotline too.**

That night, Aníron lay awake, restless in the darkness, and cramped due to squeezing into the tight space with four other men. His arms and legs felt twisted and he could barely move his head. His neck was becoming increasingly stiff. He longed for the morning light and for something to do, anything to end this uncertainty.

But when morning came, it was not the reprieve he had hoped for. The day was grey and hot, and the air was full of tiny dust particles that swirled around, sticking in his throat and nose and making him sneeze and cough. The men were breaking camp around him, clanking and talking and cursing when the tents would not fold correctly. He heard the cloth flapping the wind and a horse's bray, and felt very small, in the grand scheme of things. He saw Faramir, dusty and weary, directing the men, and then suddenly the entire camp fell silent.

Their guest had emerged from her tent. She wore the same armour as yesterday, and her eyes looked sad. Aníron doubted she had got much sleep. If a Maia needed sleep. He watched as Faramir approached her and asked her a question. She deliberated for a moment, then nodded. The entire company seemed to let out its breath in a deep sigh of relief.

Aníron turned away and began to load up the horses.

Later that day, as they rode back to Minas Tirith, Aníron watched the world pass by and tried to forget his cares. The sunshine was brighter here, and it painted the roadside grass a deep green. The air smelt of spring, and the steady clip-clop of the horses' hooves comforted him. It was repetitive, predictable and safe. Morveta walked beside the horses, easily keeping pace with them on foot. She was incredible, Aníron thought. He had never met one of the Ainur before and it was a great privilege to meet one now, even if she had killed millions.

That thought made his stomach tighten a little, however, and he found he could no longer look at her. She could have been the one to hand a weapon to the Orc that had killed his father. She could have led the battle cry and sent the army rushing towards Gondor.

Aníron did not fear her like the others, but he wondered if he might be starting to hate her. The thought of her left a cold, heavy feeling in his gut, and he felt his fingernails digging into his hands. He saw that she was practically abreast of his horse, and dug his heels in, anxious to escape her company. She did not seem hurt at this, only resigned, and she carried on walking behind him.

Aníron felt angry now. He wanted to see her break, wanted to see her kicked and stabbed and broken. His emotions were getting the better of him, he knew, but he could not stand it anymore, it was all wrong, trotting along the road with the sky as blue as you please and the birds twittering like there was no tomorrow, and then a wicked murderer travelling along with them. Suddenly he could stand it no more, and he reined in his horse, grabbed his sword from his saddlebag and hurled it at her.

The whole world seemed to darken. The sky dimmed, and the sunlight felt less powerful. Faramir and all the other men became no more than blur at the edge of his vision. A great roaring began, assaulting his ears until he could barely stand it. Morveta seemed to grow taller and taller, her face contorting with rage. Aníron felt a terrible burning sensation creep along his body, starting with his sword hand.

The pain only worsened, until he fell from his horse and lay convulsing on the grass. The roaring slowly receded and he heard a clang as his sword landed beside him. The pain began to ebb away, until eventually he was able to sit up.

"What did you do to him?" exclaimed one of the men, clearly angry.

"I taught the hotheaded young fool a lesson," came the reply.

Aníron sat upon the ground, feeling like an idiot, but still too stiff to get up. Then, to rub salt in the wound, she approached him and stretched out her hand, offering to help him up. Aníron ignored her and stood up by himself, then remounted his horse with as much dignity as he could muster.

Faramir, however, called a halt. He glared at Morveta and then led his horse over to Aníron's.

"Are you alright?" he asked in a low voice.

"Yes, I think so," Aníron answered quietly.

"You should know better," Faramir admonished him, "that was very foolish, Aníron, and you know it."

Then he turned to Morveta and said severely,

"In future please refrain from injuring my men, if you please."

For several hours the company rode on in silence. The tension was so obvious you could practically taste it, and it was not a pleasant taste. It was bitter and dry. As the great white gem of Minas Tirith came into sight, and a sentinel on the parapet gave the cry that the rangers were returning, Aníron heard Faramir sigh. He sounded utterly exhausted. Turning to look at him, he saw that his face was streaked with dirt and that he was frowning. His hair was disarrayed and there was a pained expression in his eyes, utterly incongruous with his beautiful surroundings. The rest of the men looked bad too, filthy and tired and grumbling quietly.

Sauron's daughter stood among them, serene and impassive. Her face was studiously blank, but Aníron could tell by her posture that she was interested in the city. She was leaning forward slightly, and her hands were reaching forward just a bit. It was as if it was a lodestone, pulling her in. Aníron made an exasperated noise and turned away from her. Why should he care what she thought about his city?

As they rode through the shining levels of Minas Tirith, the crowds parted for them, cheering, and children offered them flowers. But all fell silent at the sight of their companion. Even if they did not recognise her armour, something about her made them afraid.

When they reached the White Tree Courtyard, Éowyn was waiting for them. Faramir dismounted and embraced her wearily, and although she shot him a questioning look, she said nothing,. instead simply squeezing his hand in an effort to comfort him.

The laughter of children caught Aníron's attention, and he looked for its source. Playing in the shade of the White Tree, we're the King's eleven-year-old twin children. The boy, Eldarion, was chasing his sister, named Undómiel, after her mother. Aníron approached them.

"My prince," he said, bowing, "my princess. Would you mind fetching your parents? Tell them that Faramir has something to show them."

Eldarion nodded and rushed off into the palace, shouting, "race you!" to his twin. Undómiel squealed in outrage and hurried after him.

He caught Morveta's eye at that moment, and saw her smiling at him, no doubt amused by the childish antics of the twins. Despite himself, Aníron felt himself smiling back. It was hard to remain angry on such a day, when the sun shine so brightly, and when children played.

But then he remembered being taken to see his father's body in the crypts before they buried him. His eyes had stared, unseeing, at the ceiling, the bloodstains on his mail had dried up, leaving only dark patches. He had looked sickening.

And she had played a part in that. Aníron turned away form the girl and stared at the ground, cursing the moment of weakness that had made him smile back. He vowed then to go on hating her, no matter what.


End file.
